Doin' It Doin' It Doin' It Well

Artwork and Photo by Carolyn Sewell

I'm on a Rolodex today. 

I have less than one week left of working for the man. I have been looking forward to this moment long before I thought it was a possibility, since I was about 12 and decided I didn't want to have a 9 to 5 job working for the man. But everywhere I looked, every adult had a 9 to 5 (you guessed it) working for the man. Somewhere in my less secure teens and early twenties I forgot my 12-year-old self. 


Then one day I moved to Brooklyn. And I got drunk. When I was drunk I met all kinds of people who did all kinds of things. There were people who you know, worked three days a week. People who sold real estate, drugs, assisted jewelry makers and unknown fashion designers. There were people who traveled the world being fabulously gay and literally knowing everyone in Zurich (okay there's only one of him). And I was like dang! There's such a thing as making a living outside of a cubicle? Of course I knew that was true, but meeting people who actually did it was like being Wily Coyote missing the road runner and falling off the cliff as a result. 


When I sobered up, I turned back into that girl who forgot she was 12 once. I went to my 9 to 5, I went to business school, I was scared to death of the future because it was entirely unknown; kind of like me, to myself. 


And then one night this person gave me a kick in the pants and told me to start a blog because wasting my writing talent would be "criminal." And so I did. And a few people read it. And a few people said they liked it . The readership didn't grow, the blog never became famous or got me a book deal, so this isn't one of those stories.


But, what did happen was someone in my office noticed I was always shopping online and looking at clothes. She would mention it to me and because she wasn't my boss I would reply with a shoulder shrug and a, "Yeah, this is who I am." She needed someone to write on a blog for a website she was affiliated with that covered fashion. I thought about my blog and the people who liked it and said "I think I can do that!" 


So I started, but I was still my boring old forgetful self. 
I wrote articles and interviewed fashion people and musicians and went to fashion shows and had a falling out with the guy who owned the website and it was over. But, I thought, maybe I can use that experience to write somewhere else...so I applied. And I got a job. And my writing was paid for and fielded out on the internet to places in the US, in the UK, on websites near and far away.  


My 9 to 5 started to get rough. They were heaping more work on to me, being stricter about starting time, what was on my computer and stopped paying overtime.


A flash of light and one epiphany later, I knew I had to get away from the man. The more I thought about it realistically, the more it made perfect sense. Financial sense, happiness sense, time sense, creative sense, just so much fucking sense it was bananas. And then I started to remember all kinds of things. Like, that ever since I looked up the stock market in my encyclopedia when I was 18, I wanted in on it. And all I ever really cared about was writing and clothes. And all I ever wanted was my freedom. And that I HATED my 9 to 5. 


I remembered that before I was taught how to write, I would scribble on pieces of paper, pretending to. I remembered that I would make my friends read and write stories on play dates and at recess. I remembered convincing my parents to buy me pretty notebooks at the drug store so I could write my own "book." I started to remember that kick a** fearless 12- year-old who was pretty sure she was going to be amazing at life. It didn't stop me from being fearful, but it did inspire me.


I planned my exit a few months in advance. If all went according to plan, I was going to have all kinds of money saved up, a nice cushion and some left over to buy a few things that would make my new life perfect. Just perfect. But, I kept on living and buying things and procrastinating on building the nest egg. And then the very person responsible for getting me to write in the first place cost me $125 by flaking out when I asked him to help me fix my computer. Such is life.
I had no savings, but I'd had enough. And so, I quit the man. I might struggle to pay my bills for a month or two, but what I'll get in return is so much more important.

• I get to write. I get to buy clothes (and deduct the cost from taxes as a fashion and beauty writer) 
• I get to play with the stock market
• I get my freedom

Imagine that. Everything I ever really wanted or cared about...so far